The man of life upright,Whose guiltless heart is freeFrom all dishonest deeds,Or thought of vanity;The man whose silent daysIn harmless joys are spent,Whom hopes cannot deludeNor sorrow discontent:That man needs neither towersNor armour for defence,Nor secret vaults to flyFrom thunder's violence:He only can beholdWith unaffrighted eyesThe horrors of the deepAnd terrors of the skies.Thus scorning all the caresThat fate or fortune brings,He makes the heaven his book,His wisdom heavenly things;Good thoughts his only friends,His wealth a well-spent age,The earth his sober innAnd quiet pilgrimage.
The man of life upright,Whose guiltless heart is freeFrom all dishonest deeds,Or thought of vanity;
The man whose silent daysIn harmless joys are spent,Whom hopes cannot deludeNor sorrow discontent:
That man needs neither towersNor armour for defence,Nor secret vaults to flyFrom thunder's violence:
He only can beholdWith unaffrighted eyesThe horrors of the deepAnd terrors of the skies.
Thus scorning all the caresThat fate or fortune brings,He makes the heaven his book,His wisdom heavenly things;
Good thoughts his only friends,His wealth a well-spent age,The earth his sober innAnd quiet pilgrimage.
T. Campion
Of this fair volume which we World do nameIf we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame,We clear might read the art and wisdom rare:Find out His power which wildest powers doth tame,His providence extending everywhere,His justice which proud rebels doth not spare,In every page, no period of the same.But silly we, like foolish children, restWell pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold,Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best,On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold;Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught,It is some picture on the margin wrought.
Of this fair volume which we World do nameIf we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame,We clear might read the art and wisdom rare:
Find out His power which wildest powers doth tame,His providence extending everywhere,His justice which proud rebels doth not spare,In every page, no period of the same.
But silly we, like foolish children, restWell pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold,Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best,On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold;
Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught,It is some picture on the margin wrought.
W. Drummond
Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move?Is this the justice which on Earth we find?Is this that firm decree which all doth bind?Are these your influences, Powers above?Those souls which vice's moody mists most blind,Blind Fortune, blindly, most their friend doth prove;And they who thee, poor idol Virtue! love,Ply like a feather toss'd by storm and wind.Ah! if a Providence doth sway this allWhy should best minds groan under most distress?Or why should pride humility make thrall,And injuries the innocent oppress?Heavens! hinder, stop this fate; or grant a timeWhen good may have, as well as bad, their prime!
Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move?Is this the justice which on Earth we find?Is this that firm decree which all doth bind?Are these your influences, Powers above?
Those souls which vice's moody mists most blind,Blind Fortune, blindly, most their friend doth prove;And they who thee, poor idol Virtue! love,Ply like a feather toss'd by storm and wind.
Ah! if a Providence doth sway this allWhy should best minds groan under most distress?Or why should pride humility make thrall,And injuries the innocent oppress?
Heavens! hinder, stop this fate; or grant a timeWhen good may have, as well as bad, their prime!
W. Drummond
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry—As, to behold desert a beggar born,And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,And purest faith unhappily forsworn,And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,And strength by limping sway disabled,And art made tongue-tied by authority,And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,And captive Good attending captain Ill:——Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone.
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry—As, to behold desert a beggar born,And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,And captive Good attending captain Ill:—
—Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone.
W. Shakespeare
Happy were he could finish forth his fateIn some unhaunted desert, where, obscureFrom all society, from love and hateOf worldly folk, there should he sleep secure;Then wake again, and yield God ever praise;Content with hip, with haws, and brambleberry;In contemplation passing still his days,And change of holy thoughts to make him merry:Who, when he dies, his tomb might be the bushWhere harmless robin resteth with the thrush:—Happy were he!
Happy were he could finish forth his fateIn some unhaunted desert, where, obscureFrom all society, from love and hateOf worldly folk, there should he sleep secure;
Then wake again, and yield God ever praise;Content with hip, with haws, and brambleberry;In contemplation passing still his days,And change of holy thoughts to make him merry:
Who, when he dies, his tomb might be the bushWhere harmless robin resteth with the thrush:—Happy were he!
R. Devereux, Earl of Essex
The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's KingGirt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild,Among that savage brood the woods forth bring,Which he more harmless found than man, and mild.His food was locusts, and what there doth spring,With honey that from virgin hives distill'd;Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thingMade him appear, long since from earth exiled.There burst he forth: All ye whose hopes relyOn God, with me amidst these deserts mourn,Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!—Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry?Only the echoes, which he made relent,Rung from their flinty caves, Repent! Repent!
The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's KingGirt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild,Among that savage brood the woods forth bring,Which he more harmless found than man, and mild.
His food was locusts, and what there doth spring,With honey that from virgin hives distill'd;Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thingMade him appear, long since from earth exiled.
There burst he forth: All ye whose hopes relyOn God, with me amidst these deserts mourn,Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!—Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry?
Only the echoes, which he made relent,Rung from their flinty caves, Repent! Repent!
W. Drummond
This is the month, and this the happy mornWherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal KingOf wedded maid and virgin mother born,Our great redemption from above did bring;For so the holy sages once did singThat He our deadly forfeit should release,And with His Father work us a perpetual peace.That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,And that far-beaming blaze of MajestyWherewith He wont at Heaven's high council-tableTo sit the midst of Trinal Unity,He laid aside; and, here with us to be,Forsook the courts of everlasting day,And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred veinAfford a present to the Infant God?Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strainTo welcome Him to this His new abode,Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod,Hath took no print of the approaching light,And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?See how from far, upon the eastern road,The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet:O run, prevent them with thy humble odeAnd lay it lowly at His blessed feet;Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,And join thy voice unto the Angel quireFrom out His secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire.
This is the month, and this the happy mornWherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal KingOf wedded maid and virgin mother born,Our great redemption from above did bring;For so the holy sages once did singThat He our deadly forfeit should release,And with His Father work us a perpetual peace.
That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,And that far-beaming blaze of MajestyWherewith He wont at Heaven's high council-tableTo sit the midst of Trinal Unity,He laid aside; and, here with us to be,Forsook the courts of everlasting day,And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.
Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred veinAfford a present to the Infant God?Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strainTo welcome Him to this His new abode,Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod,Hath took no print of the approaching light,And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?
See how from far, upon the eastern road,The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet:O run, prevent them with thy humble odeAnd lay it lowly at His blessed feet;Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,And join thy voice unto the Angel quireFrom out His secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire.
It was the winter wildWhile the heaven-born ChildAll meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;Nature in awe to HimHad doff'd her gaudy trim,With her great Master so to sympathize:It was no season then for herTo wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.Only with speeches fairShe woos the gentle airTo hide her guilty front with innocent snow;And on her naked shame,Pollute with sinful blame,The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;Confounded, that her Maker's eyesShould look so near upon her foul deformities.But He, her fears to cease,Sent down the meek-eyed Peace;She, crown'd with olive green, came softly slidingDown through the turning sphere,His ready harbinger,With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;And waving wide her myrtle wand,She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.No war, or battle's soundWas heard the world around:The idle spear and shield were high uphung;The hookéd chariot stoodUnstain'd with hostile blood;The trumpet spake not to the arméd throng;And kings sat still with awful eye,As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.But peaceful was the nightWherein the Prince of LightHis reign of peace upon the earth began:The winds, with wonder whist,Smoothly the waters kistWhispering new joys to the mild oceán—Who now hath quite forgot to rave,While birds of calm sit brooding on the charméd wave.The stars, with deep amaze,Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze,Bending one way their precious influence;And will not take their flightFor all the morning light,Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence;But in their glimmering orbs did glowUntil their Lord Himself bespake, and bid them go.And though the shady gloomHad given day her room,The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,And hid his head for shame,As his inferior flameThe new-enlighten'd world no more should need;He saw a greater Sun appearThan his bright throne, or burning axletree could bear.The shepherds on the lawnOr ere the point of dawnSate simply chatting in a rustic row;Full little thought they thanThat the mighty PanWas kindly come to live with them below;Perhaps their loves, or else their sheepWas all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep:—When such music sweetTheir hearts and ears did greetAs never was by mortal finger strook—Divinely-warbled voiceAnswering the stringéd noise,As all their souls in blissful rapture took:The air, such pleasure loth to lose,With thousand echoes, still prolongs each heavenly close.Nature, that heard such soundBeneath the hollow roundOf Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling.Now was almost wonTo think her part was done,And that her reign had here its last fulfilling;She knew such harmony aloneCould hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union,At last surrounds their sightA globe of circular lightThat with long beams the shamefaced night array'd;The helméd CherubimAnd sworded SeraphimAre seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd,Harping in loud and solemn quireWith unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir.Such music (as 'tis said)Before was never madeBut when of old the Sons of Morning sung,While the Creator greatHis constellations setAnd the well-balanced world on hinges hung;And cast the dark foundations deep,And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep,Ring out, ye crystal spheres!Once bless our human ears,If ye have power to touch our senses so;And let your silver chimeMove in melodious time;And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow;And with your ninefold harmonyMake up full consort to the angelic symphony.For if such holy songEnwrap our fancy long,Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold;And speckled VanityWill sicken soon and die,And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould;And Hell itself will pass away,And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.Yea, Truth and Justice thenWill down return to men,Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,Mercy will sit betweenThroned in celestial sheen,With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;And Heaven, as at some festival,Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall.But wisest Fate says No;This must not yet be so;The Babe yet lies in smiling infancyThat on the bitter crossMust redeem our loss;So both Himself and us to glorify:Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleepThe wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep;With such a horrid clangAs on Mount Sinai rangWhile the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake:The aged Earth aghastWith terror of that blastShall from the surface to the centre shake,When, at the world's last sessión,The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne.And then at last our blissFull and perfect is,But now begins; for from this happy dayThe old Dragon under ground,In straiter limits bound,Not half so far casts his usurpéd sway;And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.The Oracles are dumb;No voice or hideous humRuns through the archéd roof in words deceiving.Apollo from his shrineCan no more divine,With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving:No nightly trance or breathéd spellInspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.The lonely mountains o'erAnd the resounding shoreA voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;From haunted spring and daleEdged with poplar paleThe parting Genius is With sighing sent;With flower-inwoven tresses tornThe Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.In consecrated earthAnd on the holy hearthThe Lars and Lemurés moan with midnight plaint;In urns, and altars roundA drear and dying soundAffrights the Flamens at their service quaint;And the chill marble seems to sweat,While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat.Peor and BaalimForsake their temples dim,With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine;And moonéd AshtarothHeaven's queen and mother both,Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine;The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn:In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.And sullen Moloch, fled,Hath left in shadows dreadHis burning idol all of blackest hue;In vain with cymbals' ringThey call the grisly king,In dismal dance about the furnace blue;The brutish gods of Nile as fast,Isis; and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.Nor is Osiris seenIn Memphian grove, or green,Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud:Nor can he be at restWithin his sacred chest;Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud;In vain with timbrell'd anthems darkThe sable-stoléd sorcerers bear his worshipt ark.He feels from Juda's landThe dreaded Infant's hand;The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;Nor all the gods besideLonger dare abide,Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:Our Babe, to show His Godhead true,Can in His swaddling bands control the damnéd crew.So, when the sun in bedCurtain'd with cloudy redPillows his chin upon an orient wave,The flocking shadows paleTroop to the infernal jail,Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;And the yellow-skirted faysFly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.But see! the Virgin blestHath laid her Babe to rest;Time is, our tedious song should here have ending:Heaven's youngest-teeméd starHath fix'd her polish'd car,Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending:And all about the courtly stableBright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable.
It was the winter wildWhile the heaven-born ChildAll meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;Nature in awe to HimHad doff'd her gaudy trim,With her great Master so to sympathize:It was no season then for herTo wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.
Only with speeches fairShe woos the gentle airTo hide her guilty front with innocent snow;And on her naked shame,Pollute with sinful blame,The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;Confounded, that her Maker's eyesShould look so near upon her foul deformities.
But He, her fears to cease,Sent down the meek-eyed Peace;She, crown'd with olive green, came softly slidingDown through the turning sphere,His ready harbinger,With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;And waving wide her myrtle wand,She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.
No war, or battle's soundWas heard the world around:The idle spear and shield were high uphung;The hookéd chariot stoodUnstain'd with hostile blood;The trumpet spake not to the arméd throng;And kings sat still with awful eye,As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.
But peaceful was the nightWherein the Prince of LightHis reign of peace upon the earth began:The winds, with wonder whist,Smoothly the waters kistWhispering new joys to the mild oceán—Who now hath quite forgot to rave,While birds of calm sit brooding on the charméd wave.
The stars, with deep amaze,Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze,Bending one way their precious influence;And will not take their flightFor all the morning light,Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence;But in their glimmering orbs did glowUntil their Lord Himself bespake, and bid them go.
And though the shady gloomHad given day her room,The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,And hid his head for shame,As his inferior flameThe new-enlighten'd world no more should need;He saw a greater Sun appearThan his bright throne, or burning axletree could bear.
The shepherds on the lawnOr ere the point of dawnSate simply chatting in a rustic row;Full little thought they thanThat the mighty PanWas kindly come to live with them below;Perhaps their loves, or else their sheepWas all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep:—
When such music sweetTheir hearts and ears did greetAs never was by mortal finger strook—Divinely-warbled voiceAnswering the stringéd noise,As all their souls in blissful rapture took:The air, such pleasure loth to lose,With thousand echoes, still prolongs each heavenly close.
Nature, that heard such soundBeneath the hollow roundOf Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling.Now was almost wonTo think her part was done,And that her reign had here its last fulfilling;She knew such harmony aloneCould hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union,
At last surrounds their sightA globe of circular lightThat with long beams the shamefaced night array'd;The helméd CherubimAnd sworded SeraphimAre seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd,Harping in loud and solemn quireWith unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir.
Such music (as 'tis said)Before was never madeBut when of old the Sons of Morning sung,While the Creator greatHis constellations setAnd the well-balanced world on hinges hung;And cast the dark foundations deep,And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep,
Ring out, ye crystal spheres!Once bless our human ears,If ye have power to touch our senses so;And let your silver chimeMove in melodious time;And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow;And with your ninefold harmonyMake up full consort to the angelic symphony.
For if such holy songEnwrap our fancy long,Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold;And speckled VanityWill sicken soon and die,And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould;And Hell itself will pass away,And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
Yea, Truth and Justice thenWill down return to men,Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,Mercy will sit betweenThroned in celestial sheen,With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;And Heaven, as at some festival,Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall.
But wisest Fate says No;This must not yet be so;The Babe yet lies in smiling infancyThat on the bitter crossMust redeem our loss;So both Himself and us to glorify:Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleepThe wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep;
With such a horrid clangAs on Mount Sinai rangWhile the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake:The aged Earth aghastWith terror of that blastShall from the surface to the centre shake,When, at the world's last sessión,The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne.
And then at last our blissFull and perfect is,But now begins; for from this happy dayThe old Dragon under ground,In straiter limits bound,Not half so far casts his usurpéd sway;And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.
The Oracles are dumb;No voice or hideous humRuns through the archéd roof in words deceiving.Apollo from his shrineCan no more divine,With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving:No nightly trance or breathéd spellInspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
The lonely mountains o'erAnd the resounding shoreA voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;From haunted spring and daleEdged with poplar paleThe parting Genius is With sighing sent;With flower-inwoven tresses tornThe Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
In consecrated earthAnd on the holy hearthThe Lars and Lemurés moan with midnight plaint;In urns, and altars roundA drear and dying soundAffrights the Flamens at their service quaint;And the chill marble seems to sweat,While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat.
Peor and BaalimForsake their temples dim,With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine;And moonéd AshtarothHeaven's queen and mother both,Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine;The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn:In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.
And sullen Moloch, fled,Hath left in shadows dreadHis burning idol all of blackest hue;In vain with cymbals' ringThey call the grisly king,In dismal dance about the furnace blue;The brutish gods of Nile as fast,Isis; and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.
Nor is Osiris seenIn Memphian grove, or green,Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud:Nor can he be at restWithin his sacred chest;Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud;In vain with timbrell'd anthems darkThe sable-stoléd sorcerers bear his worshipt ark.
He feels from Juda's landThe dreaded Infant's hand;The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;Nor all the gods besideLonger dare abide,Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:Our Babe, to show His Godhead true,Can in His swaddling bands control the damnéd crew.
So, when the sun in bedCurtain'd with cloudy redPillows his chin upon an orient wave,The flocking shadows paleTroop to the infernal jail,Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;And the yellow-skirted faysFly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.
But see! the Virgin blestHath laid her Babe to rest;Time is, our tedious song should here have ending:Heaven's youngest-teeméd starHath fix'd her polish'd car,Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending:And all about the courtly stableBright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable.
J. Milton
From Harmony, from heavenly HarmonyThis universal frame began:When Nature underneath a heapOf jarring atoms layAnd could not heave her head,The tuneful voice was heard from high,Arise, ye more than dead!Then cold and hot and moist and dryIn order to their stations leap,And Music's power obey.From harmony, from heavenly harmonyThis universal frame began:From harmony to harmonyThrough all the compass of the notes it ran,The diapason closing full in Man.What passion cannot Music raise and quell?When Jubal struck the chorded shellHis listening brethren stood around,And, wondering, on their faces fellTo worship that celestial sound.Less than a god they thought there could not dwellWithin the hollow of that shellThat spoke so sweetly and so well.What passion cannot Music raise and quell?The trumpet's loud clangorExcites us to arms,With shrill notes of angerAnd mortal alarms.The double double double beatOf the thundering drumCries 'Hark! the foes come;Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!'The soft complaining fluteIn dying notes discoversThe woes of hopeless lovers,Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.Sharp violins proclaimTheir jealous pangs and desperation,Fury, frantic indignation,Depth of pains, and height of passionFor the fair disdainful dame.But oh! what art can teach,What human voice can reachThe sacred organ's praise?Notes inspiring holy love,Notes that wing their heavenly waysTo mend the choirs above.Orpheus could lead the savage race,And trees unrooted left their placeSequacious of the lyre:But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher:When to her Organ vocal breath was givenAn Angel heard, and straight appear'd—Mistaking Earth for Heaven.
From Harmony, from heavenly HarmonyThis universal frame began:When Nature underneath a heapOf jarring atoms layAnd could not heave her head,The tuneful voice was heard from high,Arise, ye more than dead!Then cold and hot and moist and dryIn order to their stations leap,And Music's power obey.From harmony, from heavenly harmonyThis universal frame began:From harmony to harmonyThrough all the compass of the notes it ran,The diapason closing full in Man.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell?When Jubal struck the chorded shellHis listening brethren stood around,And, wondering, on their faces fellTo worship that celestial sound.Less than a god they thought there could not dwellWithin the hollow of that shellThat spoke so sweetly and so well.What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
The trumpet's loud clangorExcites us to arms,With shrill notes of angerAnd mortal alarms.The double double double beatOf the thundering drumCries 'Hark! the foes come;Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!'
The soft complaining fluteIn dying notes discoversThe woes of hopeless lovers,Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.
Sharp violins proclaimTheir jealous pangs and desperation,Fury, frantic indignation,Depth of pains, and height of passionFor the fair disdainful dame.
But oh! what art can teach,What human voice can reachThe sacred organ's praise?Notes inspiring holy love,Notes that wing their heavenly waysTo mend the choirs above.
Orpheus could lead the savage race,And trees unrooted left their placeSequacious of the lyre:But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher:When to her Organ vocal breath was givenAn Angel heard, and straight appear'd—Mistaking Earth for Heaven.
Grand Chorus
As from the power of sacred laysThe spheres began to move,And sung the great Creator's praiseTo all the blest above;So when the last and dreadful hourThis crumbling pageant shall devour,The trumpet shall be heard on high,The dead shall live, the living die,And Music shall untune the sky.
As from the power of sacred laysThe spheres began to move,And sung the great Creator's praiseTo all the blest above;So when the last and dreadful hourThis crumbling pageant shall devour,The trumpet shall be heard on high,The dead shall live, the living die,And Music shall untune the sky.
J. Dryden
Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd saints, whose bonesLie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold;Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of oldWhen all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones,Forget not: In Thy book record their groansWho were Thy sheep, and in their ancient foldSlain by the bloody Piemontese, that roll'dMother with infant down the rocks. Their moansThe vales redoubled to the hills, and theyTo Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sowO'er all the Italian fields, where still doth swayThe triple Tyrant: that from these may growA hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way,Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd saints, whose bonesLie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold;Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of oldWhen all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones,
Forget not: In Thy book record their groansWho were Thy sheep, and in their ancient foldSlain by the bloody Piemontese, that roll'dMother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and theyTo Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sowO'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway
The triple Tyrant: that from these may growA hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way,Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
J. Milton
The forward youth that would appear,Must now forsake his Muses dear,Nor in the shadows singHis numbers languishing.'Tis time to leave the books in dust,And oil the unuséd armour's rust,Removing from the wallThe corslet of the hall.So restless Cromwell could not ceaseIn the inglorious arts of peace,But through adventurous warUrgéd his active star:And like the three-fork'd lightning, firstBreaking the clouds where it was nurst,Did thorough his own SideHis fiery way divide:For 'tis all one to courage high,The emulous, or enemy;And with such, to encloseIs more than to oppose;Then burning through the air he wentAnd palaces and temples rent;And Caesar's head at lastDid through his laurels blast.'Tis madness to resist or blameThe face of angry heaven's flame;And if we would speak true,Much to the Man is dueWho, from his private gardens, whereHe lived reservéd and austere,(As if his highest plotTo plant the bergamot,)Could by industrious valour climbTo ruin the great work of time,And cast the Kingdoms oldInto another mould;Though Justice against Fate complain,And plead the ancient Rights in vain—But those do hold or breakAs men are strong or weak;Nature, that hateth emptiness,Allows of penetration less,And therefore must make roomWhere greater spirits come.What field of all the civil warWhere his were not the deepest scar?And Hampton shows what partHe had of wiser art,Where, twining subtle fears with hope,He wove a net of such a scopeThat Charles himself might chaseTo Carisbrook's narrow case,That thence the Royal actor borneThe tragic scaffold might adorn:While round the arméd bandsDid clap their bloody hands.He nothing common did or meanUpon that memorable scene,But with his keener eyeThe axe's edge did try;Nor call'd the Gods, with vulgar spite,To vindicate his helpless right;But bow'd his comely headDown, as upon a bed.—This was that memorable hourWhich first assured the forcéd power:So when they did designThe Capitol's first line,A Bleeding Head, where they begun,Did fright the architects to run;And yet in that the StateForesaw its happy fate!And now the Irish are ashamedTo see themselves in one year tamed:So much one man can doThat does both act and know.They can affirm his praises best,And have, though overcome, confestHow good he is, how justAnd fit for highest trust.Nor yet grown stiffer with command,But still in the Republic's hand—How fit he is to swayThat can so well obey!He to the Commons' feet presentsA Kingdom for his first year's rents,And (what he may) forbearsHis fame, to make it theirs:And has his sword and spoils ungirtTo lay them at the Public's skirt.So when the falcon highFalls heavy from the sky,She, having kill'd, no more doth searchBut on the next green bough to perch,Where, when he first does lure,The falconer has her sure.—What may not then our Isle presumeWhile victory his crest does plume?What may not others fearIf thus he crowns each year?As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul,To Italy an Hannibal,And to all States not freeShall climacteric be.The Pict no shelter now shall findWithin his parti-colour'd mind,But from this valour sadShrink underneath the plaid—Happy, if in the tufted brakeThe English hunter him mistake,Nor lay his hounds in nearThe Caledonian deer.But Thou, the War's and Fortune's son,March indefatigably on;And for the last effectStill keep the sword erect:Besides the force it has to frightThe spirits of the shady night,The same arts that did gainA power, must it maintain.
The forward youth that would appear,Must now forsake his Muses dear,Nor in the shadows singHis numbers languishing.
'Tis time to leave the books in dust,And oil the unuséd armour's rust,Removing from the wallThe corslet of the hall.
So restless Cromwell could not ceaseIn the inglorious arts of peace,But through adventurous warUrgéd his active star:
And like the three-fork'd lightning, firstBreaking the clouds where it was nurst,Did thorough his own SideHis fiery way divide:
For 'tis all one to courage high,The emulous, or enemy;And with such, to encloseIs more than to oppose;
Then burning through the air he wentAnd palaces and temples rent;And Caesar's head at lastDid through his laurels blast.
'Tis madness to resist or blameThe face of angry heaven's flame;And if we would speak true,Much to the Man is due
Who, from his private gardens, whereHe lived reservéd and austere,(As if his highest plotTo plant the bergamot,)
Could by industrious valour climbTo ruin the great work of time,And cast the Kingdoms oldInto another mould;
Though Justice against Fate complain,And plead the ancient Rights in vain—But those do hold or breakAs men are strong or weak;
Nature, that hateth emptiness,Allows of penetration less,And therefore must make roomWhere greater spirits come.
What field of all the civil warWhere his were not the deepest scar?And Hampton shows what partHe had of wiser art,
Where, twining subtle fears with hope,He wove a net of such a scopeThat Charles himself might chaseTo Carisbrook's narrow case,
That thence the Royal actor borneThe tragic scaffold might adorn:While round the arméd bandsDid clap their bloody hands.
He nothing common did or meanUpon that memorable scene,But with his keener eyeThe axe's edge did try;
Nor call'd the Gods, with vulgar spite,To vindicate his helpless right;But bow'd his comely headDown, as upon a bed.
—This was that memorable hourWhich first assured the forcéd power:So when they did designThe Capitol's first line,
A Bleeding Head, where they begun,Did fright the architects to run;And yet in that the StateForesaw its happy fate!
And now the Irish are ashamedTo see themselves in one year tamed:So much one man can doThat does both act and know.
They can affirm his praises best,And have, though overcome, confestHow good he is, how justAnd fit for highest trust.
Nor yet grown stiffer with command,But still in the Republic's hand—How fit he is to swayThat can so well obey!
He to the Commons' feet presentsA Kingdom for his first year's rents,And (what he may) forbearsHis fame, to make it theirs:
And has his sword and spoils ungirtTo lay them at the Public's skirt.So when the falcon highFalls heavy from the sky,
She, having kill'd, no more doth searchBut on the next green bough to perch,Where, when he first does lure,The falconer has her sure.
—What may not then our Isle presumeWhile victory his crest does plume?What may not others fearIf thus he crowns each year?
As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul,To Italy an Hannibal,And to all States not freeShall climacteric be.
The Pict no shelter now shall findWithin his parti-colour'd mind,But from this valour sadShrink underneath the plaid—
Happy, if in the tufted brakeThe English hunter him mistake,Nor lay his hounds in nearThe Caledonian deer.
But Thou, the War's and Fortune's son,March indefatigably on;And for the last effectStill keep the sword erect:
Besides the force it has to frightThe spirits of the shady night,The same arts that did gainA power, must it maintain.
A. Marvell
Elegy on a Friend drowned in the Irish Channel 1637
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once moreYe myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,And with forced fingers rudeShatter your leaves before the mellowing year.Bitter constraint and sad occasion dearCompels me to disturb your season due:For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knewHimself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.He must not float upon his watery bierUnwept, and welter to the parching wind,Without the meed of some melodious tear.Begin then, Sisters of the sacred wellThat from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.Hence with denial vain and coy excuse:So may some gentle MuseWith lucky words favour my destined urn;And as he passes, turnAnd bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill:Together both, ere the high lawns appear'dUnder the opening eyelids of the Morn,We drove a-field, and both together heardWhat time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,Oft till the star that rose at evening brightToward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,Temper'd to the oaten flute,Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heelFrom the glad sound would not be absent long;And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.But, oh! the heavy change, now thou art gone,Now thou art gone, and never must return!Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert cavesWith wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,And all their echoes, mourn:The willows and the hazel copses greenShall now no more be seenFanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays:—As killing as the canker to the rose,Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wearWhen first the white-thorn blows;Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deepClosed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?For neither were ye playing on the steepWhere your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream:Ay me! I fondly dream—Had ye been there ... For what could that have done?What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,Whom universal nature did lament,When by the rout that made the hideous roarHis gory visage down the stream was sent,Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?Alas! what boots it with uncessant careTo tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's tradeAnd strictly meditate the thankless Muse?Were it not better done, as others use,To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise(That last infirmity of noble mind)To scorn delights, and live laborious days;But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,And think to burst out into sudden blaze,Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shearsAnd slits the thin-spun life. 'But not the praise'Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears;'Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,Nor in the glistering foilSet off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies:But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyesAnd perfect witness of all-judging Jove;As he pronounces lastly on each deed,Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.'O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd floodSmooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds,That strain I heard was of a higher mood.But now my oat proceeds,And listens to the herald of the seaThat came in Neptune's plea;He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds,What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?And question'd every gust of rugged wingsThat blows from off each beaked promontory:They knew not of his story;And sage Hippotadés their answer brings,That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd;The air was calm, and on the level brineSleek Panopé with all her sisters play'd.It was that fatal and perfidious barkBuilt in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedgeInwrought with figures dim, and on the edgeLike to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe:'Ah! who hath reft,' quoth he, 'my dearest pledge!'Last came, and last did goThe Pilot of the Galilean lake;Two massy keys he bore of metals twain(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain);He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:'How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,Enow of such, as for their bellies' sakeCreep and intrude and climb into the fold!Of other care they little reckoning makeThan how to scramble at the shearers' feast.And shove away the worthy bidden guest.Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to holdA sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the leastThat to the faithful herdman's art belongs!What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;And when they list, their lean and flashy songsGrate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,But swoln with wind and the rank mist they drawRot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:Besides what the grim wolf with privy pawDaily devours apace, and nothing said:—But that two-handed engine at the doorStands ready to smite once, and smite no more.'Return, Alphéus; the dread voice is pastThat shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,And call the vales, and bid them hither castTheir bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers useOf shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooksOn whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks;Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyesThat on the green turf suck the honey'd showersAnd purple all the ground with vernal flowers.Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,The glowing violet,The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,And every flower that sad embroidery wears:Bid amarantus all his beauty shed,And daffadillies fill their cups with tearsTo strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies.For so to interpose a little ease,Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise:—Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seasWash far away,—where'er thy bones are hurl'd,Whether beyond the stormy HebridesWhere thou perhaps, under the whelming tide,Visitest the bottom of the monstrous world;Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,Where the great Vision of the guarded mountLooks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold,—Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth:—And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth!Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor:So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,And yet anon repairs his drooping headAnd tricks his beams, and with new-spangled oreFlames in the forehead of the morning sky:So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted highThrough the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves;Where, other groves and other streams along,With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,And hears the unexpressive nuptial songIn the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.There entertain him all the Saints aboveIn solemn troops, and sweet societies,That sing, and singing, in their glory move,And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shoreIn thy large recompense, and shalt be goodTo all that wander in that perilous flood.Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,While the still morn went out with sandals gray;He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills,And now was dropt into the western bay:At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue:To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once moreYe myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,And with forced fingers rudeShatter your leaves before the mellowing year.Bitter constraint and sad occasion dearCompels me to disturb your season due:For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knewHimself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.He must not float upon his watery bierUnwept, and welter to the parching wind,Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Begin then, Sisters of the sacred wellThat from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.Hence with denial vain and coy excuse:So may some gentle MuseWith lucky words favour my destined urn;And as he passes, turnAnd bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill:Together both, ere the high lawns appear'dUnder the opening eyelids of the Morn,We drove a-field, and both together heardWhat time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,Oft till the star that rose at evening brightToward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,Temper'd to the oaten flute,Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heelFrom the glad sound would not be absent long;And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.
But, oh! the heavy change, now thou art gone,Now thou art gone, and never must return!Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert cavesWith wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,And all their echoes, mourn:The willows and the hazel copses greenShall now no more be seenFanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays:—As killing as the canker to the rose,Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wearWhen first the white-thorn blows;Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.
Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deepClosed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?For neither were ye playing on the steepWhere your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream:Ay me! I fondly dream—Had ye been there ... For what could that have done?What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,Whom universal nature did lament,When by the rout that made the hideous roarHis gory visage down the stream was sent,Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
Alas! what boots it with uncessant careTo tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's tradeAnd strictly meditate the thankless Muse?Were it not better done, as others use,To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise(That last infirmity of noble mind)To scorn delights, and live laborious days;But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,And think to burst out into sudden blaze,Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shearsAnd slits the thin-spun life. 'But not the praise'Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears;'Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,Nor in the glistering foilSet off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies:But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyesAnd perfect witness of all-judging Jove;As he pronounces lastly on each deed,Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.'
O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd floodSmooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds,That strain I heard was of a higher mood.But now my oat proceeds,And listens to the herald of the seaThat came in Neptune's plea;He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds,What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?And question'd every gust of rugged wingsThat blows from off each beaked promontory:They knew not of his story;And sage Hippotadés their answer brings,That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd;The air was calm, and on the level brineSleek Panopé with all her sisters play'd.It was that fatal and perfidious barkBuilt in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedgeInwrought with figures dim, and on the edgeLike to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe:'Ah! who hath reft,' quoth he, 'my dearest pledge!'Last came, and last did goThe Pilot of the Galilean lake;Two massy keys he bore of metals twain(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain);He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:'How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,Enow of such, as for their bellies' sakeCreep and intrude and climb into the fold!Of other care they little reckoning makeThan how to scramble at the shearers' feast.And shove away the worthy bidden guest.Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to holdA sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the leastThat to the faithful herdman's art belongs!What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;And when they list, their lean and flashy songsGrate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,But swoln with wind and the rank mist they drawRot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:Besides what the grim wolf with privy pawDaily devours apace, and nothing said:—But that two-handed engine at the doorStands ready to smite once, and smite no more.'
Return, Alphéus; the dread voice is pastThat shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,And call the vales, and bid them hither castTheir bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers useOf shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooksOn whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks;Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyesThat on the green turf suck the honey'd showersAnd purple all the ground with vernal flowers.Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,The glowing violet,The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,And every flower that sad embroidery wears:Bid amarantus all his beauty shed,And daffadillies fill their cups with tearsTo strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies.For so to interpose a little ease,Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise:—Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seasWash far away,—where'er thy bones are hurl'd,Whether beyond the stormy HebridesWhere thou perhaps, under the whelming tide,Visitest the bottom of the monstrous world;Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,Where the great Vision of the guarded mountLooks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold,—Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth:—And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth!
Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor:So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,And yet anon repairs his drooping headAnd tricks his beams, and with new-spangled oreFlames in the forehead of the morning sky:So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted highThrough the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves;Where, other groves and other streams along,With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,And hears the unexpressive nuptial songIn the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.There entertain him all the Saints aboveIn solemn troops, and sweet societies,That sing, and singing, in their glory move,And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shoreIn thy large recompense, and shalt be goodTo all that wander in that perilous flood.
Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,While the still morn went out with sandals gray;He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills,And now was dropt into the western bay:At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue:To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
J. Milton